


I've Got Headaches (Heartaches to Heartbeat)

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Biting, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in the back of his head, he's counting seconds and heartbeats and anything that moves. OCD, bipolar, sleepless in seventeen, eighteen, nineteen states. He's trying to go cold turkey, but he's been a chemical plant since he was thirteen and his teeth ache with the want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Got Headaches (Heartaches to Heartbeat)

The rooms all look the same anymore, a blur of double beds and flower print wallpaper that never really registers until after he's fallen into bed, eyes glued shut by exhaustion. The beds feel like static. Cold sheets and hard pillows, and Pete usually passes out on top of it all, shoes still on.

He doesn't know how long they've been on the road, but he can't remember anything but the rumble of tires under him and the endless stretch of road, road, road, lying across the world like a black ribbon, taking him far away from home. He hates to drive, gets carsick when he doesn't. The music in his veins pulses with each state line like a reminder. _I'm still here. Don't forget_.

The nights he can't sleep, he stares at the ceiling of his motel room, eyes dry and stinging until he can trick his body into falling off the edge. He sleeps better in the van, arms and legs cramped, face pressed to Patrick's stomach or thigh or hip, too hot to fight.

He hasn't had his drugs in weeks.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he's counting seconds and heartbeats and anything that moves. OCD, bipolar, sleepless in seventeen, eighteen, nineteen states. He's trying to go cold turkey, but he's been a chemical plant since he was thirteen and his teeth ache with the want. The headaches stumble around behind his eyes and kick at the insides of his skull in pulses and waves. 

They're in Jersey or Rhode Island or New York. Somewhere with a lot of trees and a lot of roads and a lot of highway. The van hops over potholes in the pavement, sure and safe in Joe's hands at the front. Pete's gut rumbles, bile rising up in his throat. He'll be sick if they keep going, but they'll be late if he makes them pull over.

"Open your eyes," Patrick says, one warm hand resting low on Pete's stomach. His fingers rub circles across the skin there, rough and cool and dry. "Watch the trees."

Pete cracks open an eye and does as he's told. The nausea fades into the background as he watches the blur of leaves through the window.

"Car sickness is when your ears know you're moving, but your eyes think you're sitting still," Patrick says. He always falls asleep during the ride, no matter how short, and his voice is thick with the tiredness. His eyes are narrowed behind the crooked frames of his glasses, lips cracked and chapped at the corners.

"Your useless trivia is impressive," Pete says, voice a croak. He hasn't spoken all day and it feels like giving up to do it now. They're twenty, nineteen, eighteen miles from the motel, getting closer with each second.

Patrick rubs the side of his thumb against the side of Pete's belly button and nods back off.

They have two rooms. Andy helps Joe haul Patrick out of the van while Pete heaves against the side of it, the sugar of his coffee coming up for a second taste. He stumbles along after them, keys jangling in his hand as they make their way to the check-in counter.

"Two rooms for Trohman," Joe tells the clerk. The clerk gives them a once over, and Pete just manages to keep himself from pulling a face out of spite. They're haggard and tired and probably smell like they've been driving for thirty-six hours in close quarters.

Patrick's awake when they reach room two-twenty-two. He's got their overnight bag over his shoulder, the room keys in his hand. Pete's not allowed to carry them anymore, not after losing them at a show in Kentucky. Patrick's got a memory like an elephant; it's usually more curse than blessing.

"Get undressed," Patrick says once he's shut the door. He drops their bag and heads for the bed closest to the door, kicking his shoes off on the way. They bounce off the wall, double _thuds_ that echo in the silence. It's only seven o' clock, but the sky outside the window is dark.

Pete gets undressed.

The sheets are cold on his skin, Patrick a fire next to him. The fuzz behind his eyes dies down a little as Patrick curls around him, small and soft and good. Pete presses his face to the cotton of his shirt and breathes him in. He can taste pavement on the back of his tongue.

"One to ten," Patrick says, fingers curling in the dirty strands of Pete's hair. "How's your head?"

Pete presses his nose into the give of Patrick's stomach until it feels flat, pressed down against his face. Patrick tugs at his hair lightly. It's not a warning, but Pete takes it like one.

"Six," Pete answers. He misses his pills. Patrick's fingers loosen, his nails scritching against Pete's scalp.

"Do you want me to take care of it?" Patrick asks. He always asks, even though Pete's never said no. Pete nods against him. "Say it."

"Please," Pete says, already falling down into himself. With Patrick, he doesn't have to be Pete. With Patrick, he doesn't have to be anyone at all.

Patrick slides out from under him, easy as breathing, and rolls Pete to his front, careful hands and careful fingertips, stuttered breathing like candy. The sheets are cold, the pillows are flat, and Patrick's skimming his knuckles over the raised bumps of Pete's spine, playing him like a new instrument.

"Close your eyes," Patrick says, breath hot on the small of Pete's back.

With the world black, everything narrows down to the pressure of Patrick's hips between Pete's calves, and the rustling sound of Patrick's shirt falling to the floor. Pete's waiting for it, but he's still surprised when he feels the brush of Patrick's mouth against his side.

"Let it go," Patrick says. His lips slide across Pete's back, rough edges and plush softness that Pete dreams about. Pete tries to drop the crazies away, tries to say goodbye to the sleeplessness and the sickness and the doubt, but sometimes words aren't enough. Trying isn't enough.

Patrick's tongue curls around the ink at the dip of Pete's back, hot and slick. It makes Pete ache, makes his blood run hot through him. He's getting hard against the sheets, trapped. The sharp suddenness of Patrick's teeth digging into his skin makes him jerk, and the idle thoughts about the bag of blue pills in Chicago flies away, forgotten like dust.

Eight sharp point fingertips dig into his sides, too hard to be ticklish. They slot in between his ribs, and Patrick could melt into him, take him over entirely, and Pete would be fine with it. When Patrick drags him backward Pete goes, hefting up onto his knees even though they feel weak.

"Think about me," Patrick says. "Think about this." His tongue slides wet and lewd across Pete's ass, his teeth biting across the fleshiest parts. Pete drops his chin to his chest and keeps his eyes closed. The blur of color and motion behind his eyes fades away, and all he can see is dark.

Patrick's hands slide down to his hips, holding him in place. Pete still jerks when Patrick licks a steady line up his spine, the soft skin of his belly skidding across Pete's ass. The pressure of his still soft dick is against Pete's thigh, warm through the worn fabric of his underwear. Pete tries to push against him, wiggles and thinks _enjoy this, please_.

"Think about this," Patrick says again, nose trailing a line across the side of Pete's throat. "Don't think about anything else."

The heavy pressure of Patrick against him is comforting; he's weighed down to the earth, can't float away into the darkness inside his head. He can feel his heartbeat echoing back into him through Patrick's fingers, his pulse speeding up when Patrick nips at his jaw, his throat, his shoulder.

When Patrick's teeth sink into his shoulder, Pete sags into the bed. The pent up energy stored in his arms and legs surges up into the pain and drains away. When he presses back again, he can feel Patrick getting hard against him, the head of his dick poking out of the slit in his boxers to drag across the back of Pete's thigh.

"Open your mouth," Patrick says. Pete does, unsurprised when he feels the rough pads of Patrick's fingertips slip over his tongue. "You don't have to talk," Patrick says as he slides them back and forth, "but you can, if you want."

He keeps his fingers in Pete's mouth for a moment longer, thrusting them in almost too far back, letting Pete think. When they drop away, Pete feels emptied out. Lost.

"Please," he says. "Can I see you?" He doesn't open his eyes, even though they burn. He feels sick all over again. His eyes think he's standing still when, really, he's running at light speed. Patrick taps a cool, wet finger against his collar.

"Will you, you know, be okay?" Patrick asks. Pete wants to laugh. He wants to say _no_ , but that's not really the point.

"Please," he says instead. "I want to."

So, Patrick rolls him to his back, legs spread wide and slutty over Pete's, bare chest blotchy pink and white. He looks tired, glasses off and eyes a little crossed as he tries to focus. Something warm and sharp explodes in Pete's chest. He flattens his palm over Patrick's bare stomach, fingers splayed open to show pale patches in between. Patrick bumps it away.

"Don't," he says. Pete wants to turn him over and touch him until he passes out, wants to curl his fingers around the softness of his stomach, wants to press his face to the firm lines of his thighs. The slope of Patrick's shoulders means he's exhausted, and Pete feels guilt well up in his chest, swarming up the back of his throat like bile.

"You don't have to-"

Patrick's fingers land more in his mouth than on it, salty and warm. He shuffles down, tucking his knees between Pete's and pushing them open.

"I take it back. You're not allowed to talk." He presses down on Pete's tongue with two fingers . "Suck."

Pete thinks fleetingly about not doing it, about spitting them out and wrestling Patrick down until he goes to sleep. But then Patrick's mouth falls hot and slick around the head of his dick, and he remembers that he's always been more selfish than good, and he does as he's told.

Patrick sucks dick like he does everything else: focused and sure and unbelievably well. Tonight, he's sloppier than usual, a thick line of spit running down the edge of his jaw to Pete's hip, sliding down to the back of his balls. Pete splits Patrick's fingers with his tongue and lifts his hips. He feels like he's going to fall apart.

The first blunt pressure of Patrick's fingers against his hole makes Pete jerk. The heavy weight of Patrick's arm over his hips holds him down, and he feels trapped suddenly, unable to get loose. Panic wells up in him, his legs and arms going tight.

"Pete," Patrick says against his thigh. "I'm here. Breathe." And he does, Pavlov's dog addicted to the sound of his name on Patrick's tongue.

Patrick twists his wrist, and Pete can feel his finger wriggling inside him, strange and familiar, and he forgets about the road and the music and the pressure.

The second fingers slides in, slick and blunt, and Pete squirms up against Patrick's arm, fighting the pressure. He's probably going to win, the sleepiness of Patrick's eyes egging him on. Then, Patrick's teeth dig into the big part of his thigh, vicious and sharp, and Pete shouts, ignores the pounding on the wall from the people next to them.

His skin throbs, heartbeat on the surface, and he's so focused on the ache of it that he doesn't realize Patrick's pulling back and away until he feels the blunt end of Patrick's dick pressing against him, slick from the condom Pete never saw him grab.

Patrick inside him feels like home and good and right, blasts away all the broken pieces inside of him to make room for the whole parts he's been missing all along. He grabs at Patrick's arms, fingers slipping down to wrap around his wrists. They strain under his hands, muscles contracting as Patrick slides in all the way, the heavy weight of his balls pressed up against Pete's ass.

Some nights, Patrick stays like this for what feels like hours, letting Pete shake around him, taking all of Pete's problems and spitting them away. Tonight, he draws his hips back quick and shoves in again, too fast and too hard, scooting Pete up on the sheets. He's going to fuck Pete to sleep, and if he isn't better than any drug, Pete doesn't know what is.

Patrick's watching him, cheeks pink, mouth red and open. His shoulders jerk every time he thrusts in, but he doesn't pull his hands away from Pete's, just links their fingers and tries to brace himself on the mattress. Pete's thigh slides slick against Patrick's, his calf looping into the bent hollow of Patrick's knee. It raises his hips, opens him up, and Patrick sinks deep enough into him that Pete feels like he can taste him in the back of his throat.

Pete's wound tight, toes curling against the curve of Patrick's ankle. The cotton of Patrick's boxers is bunched up between them, digging into Pete's skin and getting damp, and Pete wishes he were naked, wishes that they could melt down into each other. Patrick frees a hand and wraps it around Pete's dick, jerking him off like it's his only mission.

Pete laughs, hoarse, and Patrick grinds into him, making his breath stutter. He hiccups back and forth, up into Patrick's damp palm, back onto his dick, trying to find that place that'll knock him sane. Patrick's knee slips on the sheets and he comes forward, half collapsed on Pete, and it startles Pete into coming, his dick stuck between his and Patrick's bellies, spurting helplessly over Patrick's fingers.

"Shit," he breathes out, hands scrabbling up to wrap around Patrick's shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He's oversensitive, going soft in the cradle of Patrick's hand, but Patrick's breathing hot and hard against his throat, close enough that Pete can feel it. "Come on. Fuck. Come on." And Patrick never listens to him, but he jerks his hips a half dozen times, short thrusts that make Pete shake, and bites down on Pete's shoulder again, going statue still.

For the first time in days, Pete feels safe inside his own skin.

Pete doesn't let Patrick pull out. He flips them over, sore outside and in, and curls up on Patrick's chest like an oversized cat. He can feel the labored rise and fall of Patrick's chest, knows he's going to feel filthy in the morning, and absolutely does not care.

"Go to sleep," Patrick wheezes out, sticky hand landing in Pete's hair.

In the morning Pete climbs behind the wheel, coffee in one hand, keys in the other, and Patrick sits in the passenger's seat, watching the trees fly by. For once, Pete knows that he's standing perfectly still.


End file.
